


this is my kingdom come

by slothy_girl



Series: that spark of black that i seem to love [3]
Category: One Direction (Band), The Addams Family (1991)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Addams Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Twisted but Sweet, closet, light gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothy_girl/pseuds/slothy_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>eleanor can do a lot of things that harry wishes he could do; but this—this is something only he is allowed to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is my kingdom come

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This is all just a big writing experiment for me, as well as me trying to bring my dreams of an Addams' family AU to life, so I'm just trying to have fun with it!
> 
> I am not British in any way except in my ancestry, and this has not been Brit picked. If anyone is interested in helping out or just wants to offer some general constructive criticism, leave a comment or come say hi on my tumblr (slothy-girl)!
> 
> Title from the song “Demons” by Imagine Dragons.
> 
> Thanks: I offer many thanks to my wonderful beta Jennifer, who put up with my nagging and held my hand through the process of trying to figure out a title for this! All mistakes are my own.
> 
> Possible Trigger Warnings: While I hate to spoil things, I’d rather you all be safe than sorry, so please heed the warnings! This fic contains light descriptions of consensual gore; one character burns the flesh of the other with a cigarette and cuts open the other character's body.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no money off of this, and this is in no way a reflection on reality, etc.

contrary to popular belief, harry doesn’t hate eleanor. in fact, he doesn’t even dislike her really. the few times he has allowed himself to speak to her were awkward, sure, but they weren’t hostile. she is not what he has a problem with.

what he does have a problem with is what she represents, what the implications and consequences of her job mean.

eleanor can do a lot of things that harry wishes he could do; and he admits, when he’s feeling particularly upset and downtrodden, that he envies her greatly for these privileges she has been bestowed. she can be seen out in public with louis; she doesn’t need to use the back ways out of hotels and restaurants or need to sneak around and book private reservations in enclosed rooms away from where prying eyes can see. she can hold louis’ hand, can hug him, kiss him, just stand there beside him in front of people who are not informed family or loved ones.

sometimes it almost feels like harry is louis’ dirty little secret, like louis is his.

and of course harry knows this isn’t true, that louis loves harry just as much and just as intensely as harry loves him, that eleanor doesn’t have or even want any hold on louis since this is all about the job and the money to pay off student loans for her and nothing else, that they are in the closet for multiple reasons and that eleanor is one of the details that come from signing the dotted line and committing, at the barest minimum, to keep up the images their pr and management want them to project. but knowing all of this doesn’t make it any easier, it doesn’t make _anything_ any easier. not really.

it’s times like this, when harry feels this way, so heavy and exhausted and fed up and fragile inside, that louis tells paul and the boys to give him and harry some alone time in their hotel room for a couple hours. they usually agree without too much of a fuss, worried at seeing harry in such down spirits; they probably assume these couple hours are for comfort sex, like sex is the end all cure to help harry get out of this funk that’s left him tense and touchy, and they’re not entirely wrong.

they do fuck, and it’s nice and rough and slow, a good start to making harry feel better: hands clutching at hips and necks and tangling into hair to yank and pull; harry’s nails digging long lines of red down louis’ back; louis’ teeth bearing down and breaking skin; mouths leaving ever fading bruises wherever they can reach before crashing together and moving hot and wet against each other;  sweat slick skin moving against sweat slick skin to the soundtrack of moans and gasps and pleadings for more.

it’s what comes after this though that helps harry the most. before they’ve even fully recovered their breath, harry is already across the room, pulling the small medical kit that holds their miscellaneous set of traveling tools and instruments they like to use (none of which are as good as the ones they keep in clean, pristine condition at home, but it’s hard to explain to airport security why a member of a boy band even needs something like medical knives or scalpels, leaving them no choice but to buy some when they reach their destination) from the depths of his carry on bag and sifting through it for what he needs.

louis is still spread out across the bed, naked and running his fingers through the come that pools on his tummy, half lidded eyes watching harry stumble back over to the bed. harry knees his way back up to louis’ side, a disposable scalpel, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter all clutched in his hands. he looks at louis, a question in the tired lines of his face and his eyes, his shoulders a tense line, and louis inclines his head in consent and tapers off his breathing until he is still and quiet, allowing harry to do what he _needs_ to without distraction or impeding factors like expanding diaphragms.

harry swallows against the lump in his throat and sucks his kiss swollen bottom lip in between his teeth to bite at it, to keep it swollen and from healing. he lights one of the cigarettes and takes a long drag to get it really burning, breathing out the grey plume of smoke as he brings it down on the skin over louis’ heart; slowly, carefully, he drags the glowing red ember of the tip in the shape of his initials, ash and scar tissue trailing behind it. louis’ jaw tightens, not out of pain, but because he’s making the effort to keep the burns from healing too quickly, to give harry this, to give him what he needs, and harry loves him so much for that, for taking care of him.

when he’s done, harry stubs out the smoking butt on his own thigh, then tosses it in the direction of the cup of water sitting on the bedside table.

he runs his fingers over the puckered burn, over and over, watching as it slowly fades back to clear, golden skin. he sighs, sadly, and glances up at louis, voice thick and raw, “next time we use a blow torch.”

and louis smiles fondly, his eyes soft; he reaches out a hand to tug harry’s abused bottom lip out from where it’s found itself between his teeth again, to dig his thumbnail into the pink, fleshy inside before returning the arm to his side, out of the way.

harry hums softly and grabs up the scalpel, tests the sharpness of the blade against his thumb a few times before deeming it good enough. his hands shake in anticipation until he starts to make the first incision on louis.

if there are two things harry is most confident in, it is both the capacity with which he loves louis and his ability to both take louis’ body apart with meticulous, steady care and put it back together again.

it doesn’t take long for him to free louis’ chest cavity of the heavy flesh that covers his ribs and stomach, being careful to go around the tattoos instead of through them; they’ve had a few close calls now and there’s only so much bullshit they can feed the boys to make them stop questioning the sudden absence or reappearance of tattoos.

(there’s only so much bullshit to explain all of the other stuff that sets them apart from normal people. harry wouldn’t be surprised if the other boys find out all on their own, about the strangeness, that sense of other, that surrounds louis and harry; the two of them have slipped up often enough these past three years that all the other boys really need to do is take a step back and look at the big picture. harry just hopes that _when_ they do, not ‘if’ because his boys are smart and he knows they’ll figure it out eventually if they aren’t told first, they don’t leave louis and him or turn them over to scientists to be experimented on or something like that. he doesn’t think they would do either of those things, but who knows how they’ll react when actually faced with the truth.)

harry shakes his head and focuses on the task at hand.

it takes even less time to break through louis’ sternum and push the ribs up and out of the way into something vaguely resembling a cradle, louis helpfully holding his ribcage open and exposed for him. harry puts the scalpel and lighter on the bedside table and double checks his work, watches the way louis’ heart still beats strong and steady despite the obvious lack of oxygen intake, distantly appreciating the healthy, gleaming pink of the organs.

“everything looks good,” he says under his breath; his voice is raspy and thick. he swallows again and when he decides everything is functioning properly and up to normal standards, for people like them anyways, he meets louis’ eyes and gently caresses him on the shoulder to tell him he can start to breathe again.

louis’ lungs inflate slowly, almost hesitantly, like louis is testing to see if it changes anything, if it makes his heart speed up or the blood pulse frantically in his veins to get that oxygen where it needs to go; but no, no change. there never is. like how they can sever whole organs from their bodies and still have them working like they’re still attached, or how they can slice open their jugulars and have hardly a drop of blood flow free from their bodies, or how they can reattach pieces of themselves or re-grow it anew in seconds, they can stop breathing entirely and nothing, not even their heart rate or blood pressure, will change from it. it’s one of the many things that set them apart from normal people, these normal people that they try and act like to hide just how strange they are, how other they are.

an existential crisis for another time.

now—now is about harry and comfort and louis, and harry knows just what to do.

it takes some maneuvering and adjusting before harry is positioned properly, face tucked into the warm, solid line of louis’ neck, his torso curled up inside the cage of louis’ ribs, his one hand curled tenderly around louis’ pulsing heart, the other pushed under and around the other organs inside, the pointy ridges of louis’ spine biting into the flesh of harry’s forearm. he can’t quite fold himself all the way inside like he used to years ago when he was smaller than louis, but he tries his best all the same.

he can feel louis’ heart beating everywhere beneath him, feels it pulsing along with the blood that rushes through his veins and harry feels safe, safe and happy. he finally relaxes, feels his muscles unclench, going limp and pliant. louis carefully drags a hand through the hair at the base of harry’s neck. harry hums unintelligibly, a quiet whimper scraping through his throat; he curls in closer, like filling these spaces in louis isn’t close enough, never ever enough, will never truly _be_ enough until he can exist in the hollows of louis’ bones, in the strings of his tendons and tissues, in the beat of his pulse; but it’s good enough for right now to make him feel better. louis tightens his grip.

“aw, love.” louis sighs and harry can feel the lungs deflate beneath him with it. louis noses along his hairline before dropping a kiss to his forehead, soft and sweet like harry is something delicate that can be broken if handled too harshly.

eleanor is allowed, even encouraged, to do many things that harry cannot, but this—this is something only he is allowed to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: If anyone is interested, the cigarette/initial burning scene is inspired by a line in the song "The Masochism Tango" by John Lehrer!
> 
> I have a good deal of the series already planned out and sort of written up, though it is not yet complete. I have a pretty good idea how many parts there will be, though, and I know what each part will entail. I’m aiming for updating the series every other Friday, depending on real life.
> 
> Also, if someone could teach me how to link things in these notes, that would be brilliant!
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
